


Aimed His Pistol At The Sky

by VolarFinch



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Hamilton AU, M/M, have some humility you dumbasses, he shot up guys, history but their egos don't get in the way as much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 15:57:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolarFinch/pseuds/VolarFinch
Summary: Aaron Burr had always been a terrible shot.Whether it was the front lines or a cabinet battle, he’d never been good at making his point. He was conscious of every move he made, every twitch, every bullet in his both metaphorical and literal gun. He was calculative; he had to be. He couldn’t risk everything, not like Hamilton, not like those in the Continental Army, not like those who had nothing to lose. He had a name, a title, and a legacy he had to live up to. He couldn’t let a stray word––gunshot––give him away, dismantle everything he’d ever built up so carefully. He wasn’t Hamilton. He wasn’t.Yet there they were––Weehawken, dawn, guns drawn.(He could hear himself, him from decades before, saying, “Can we agree that duels are stupid?” and there’s still a part of him that agrees, that this whole thing is stupid, but here he was. Here they were.)





	Aimed His Pistol At The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Just something I kinda half-assed in an hour. I was in a Hamilton mood.

Aaron Burr had always been a terrible shot.

Whether it was the front lines or a cabinet battle, he’d never been good at making his point. He was conscious of every move he made, every twitch, every bullet in his both metaphorical and literal gun. He was calculative; he had to be. He couldn’t risk everything, not like Hamilton, not like those in the Continental Army, not like those who had nothing to lose. He had a name, a title, and a legacy he had to live up to. He couldn’t let a stray word––gunshot––give him away, dismantle everything he’d ever built up so carefully. He wasn’t Hamilton. He _wasn’t_.

Yet there they were––Weehawken, dawn, guns drawn.

(He could hear himself, him from decades before, saying, “Can we agree that duels are stupid?” and there’s still a part of him that agrees, that this whole thing is stupid, but here he was. Here they were.)

Burr was not one to get anxious, not one to let his emotions carry him away, but as he watched Hamilton and his second––not Laurens, it couldn’t be, but the sight of anyone but Laurens as Hamilton’s second was still a strange sight––deboard from their vessel, he felt his chest tighten. His breath seemed to get caught in his throat, strangling him slightly as he tried to keep a passive look. Black was not a color that suited Hamilton, Burr couldn’t help but think. His mind always seemed to wander when stressed, always seemed to try to focus on anything but the present.

When his parents died, he focused on the flowers in the corner.

When Theodosia died, he focused on his daughter, breathing and crying and _alive_ in his arms.

When he sent the letter, the challenge of a duel, to Hamilton, he focused on his anger and ruined pride.

There was a regret to challenging Hamilton,––what had he been thinking? Hamilton was a much better shot than he, always had been––but his pride kept him from telling his second to call the duel off. Hamilton’s transgression needed to be punished, even if he was not the right person to be delivering justice.

( _Is this really justice?_ a small part of him asked.)

 _It has to be done,_ he thought, but it didn’t feel right.

They lined-up, back to back, hands wrapped around their guns. Burr risked a glance back––Hamilton’s finger wasn’t on the trigger.

 _But he’s wearing his glasses_ , he tried to reason as he took a third step, then a forth. Anxiety clung to his throat, choking him as all reason went to the wind. The temperature around him seemed to drop as the wind raced past him.

( _When had the wind gotten so strong?_ )

 _Why is his finger not on the trigger if he’s wearing his glasses?_  It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Hamilton never made sense, but that was what human hurricanes were. Messes.

Fifth step.

Sixth.

He focused on his environment: how the green seemed dull, how the clouds shaded the little sun peeking from the horizon, how sweat clung to his shaking hands, how he remembered the news from a few months ago.

_The Hamiltons moved uptown after the death of their eldest, Philip Hamilton, to a duel._

Seventh.

Eighth.

Burr’s air supply seemed to cut off, a sudden realization hitting him.

( _He was an idiot. How could he let his pride get the best of him, the best of both of them?_ )

Hamilton wasn’t going to shoot him.

Ninth.

Tenth––  
  
“ _Fire_!”

* * *

If death were a person, Alexander Hamilton would have been their best friend.

He always had teetered around death, balanced precariously with every action he did. Death was a childhood friend, one who was too clingy and powerful and all-knowing. In some regards, death was the only thing Hamilton could trust.

It was a terror. In that moment, him taking the tenth step in his duel against Burr, it was a comfort.

 _I’m coming home,_ he couldn’t help but think.

He couldn’t wait to catch up with Laurens.

* * *

He shot up.

He held his breath, waiting for the impact of a bullet. The sound of a gunshot echoed around them and he waited for the pain. He could feel an apology already on his lips–– _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it was stupid, I was stupid, I promised you I’d be around_ ––, already feel regret in his action as his entire body trembled. He waited.

Nothing came.

Aaron Burr turned, eyes wide as he caught Hamilton’s faint silhouette.

He had shot up.

They had both shot up.

* * *

They don’t talk after the duel unless it was necessary, and even then they didn't say much. Burr never mentioned it to Hamilton; Hamilton made no effort to talk to Burr. There was a realization, a sense of understanding between the two of them after the incident.

It was hard to stay mad when so much about the other suddenly made sense.

Both of their lives went on after that.

Burr was there was Theodosia was going to board that boat, managed to convince her to stay with him just one more day. He could pay for her next passage, but he wasn't ready to let her go just yet.

(He saved her life.)

Hamilton was able to write his own biography; he kept the letters between him and John for another year, century, millennia if he had to, to himself. Eliza would find the letters soon enough and carry on the secret. There were things she couldn't understand between Laurens and Hamilton and she was not in the place to begin to understand their relationship.

(He saved John’s identity. She saved her husband’s legacy.)

They both, together yet separately, advocated for the end of slavery, raised money for the Washington Monument,  were there when Jefferson was sworn in a second time, and when Madison was sworn in for his first. Hamilton wrote, but there was something different in his prose. Something calmer, maybe.

Burr couldn’t help but think that old dogs could learn new tricks.

They both died old, happier than they felt they maybe deserved, and surrounded by family. 


End file.
